


Wolves and Women Wed For Life

by crossingwinter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alpha Arya Stark, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta Gendry, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 12:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18476362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: She’ll never want you,he tells himself.She’ll want an Omega if she can find one, not some Beta bastard.He’s tried telling himself this for years.It still doesn’t work.





	Wolves and Women Wed For Life

He hears her before he sees her with the shouts of  _ Lady Stark!  _ as she rides through the gates of Winterfell.  He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath the whole time she was away until he hears the clattering of her horse’s hooves slowing as she circles the courtyard.  Gendry watches her dismount, surveying the courtyard, taking everything in with a calculating expression before her sharp grey eyes land on him, and her face relaxes into a smile.

She takes a step towards him before someone calls “My lady,” and she turns, looking away from him.

She glances back, giving him an apologetic half-nod before going into the keep.

Gendry turns back to the boy he’s training.  Surely he’d never been that small. He remembers when Arya was, though.  “Again,” he says.

“It’s heavy,” Marke complains.  

“It’s heavy enough to make you strong,” he replies.  “When Lady Stark was your age, she was twice as strong as you.”

“But she’s an Alpha.  That doesn’t count.”

“What sort of excuse is that?” Gendry demands, flexing his own arms so that the muscles bulge enough to silence that stupid statement.  “Again.”

The boy huffs, and raises the sword and Gendry puts the sight of Arya from his mind.

_ She’ll never want you,  _ he tells himself.   _ She’ll want an Omega if she can find one, not some Beta bastard. _

He’s tried telling himself this for years.  

It still doesn’t work.

 

-

 

Gendry makes his way into the great hall around supper time, joining the guardsmen who are already seated.  Up at the high table, Arya sits in her father’s seat, the Lady of Winterfell. To her left, sits her brother Rickon.  To her right, Kellen the baker’s wife. She is listening to the woman intently—a practice she’d gotten from her lord father.

_ “I didn’t want this,”  _ Arya had said with tears in her eyes when all was said and done and the threat to the north had faded into the howling winter winds.  She’d been crouching in the godswood, arms wrapped around her knees, poking a leaf across the surface of the hotspring with a stick. In that moment, she looked more a child than even when he’d known her in the riverlands, a frightened slip of a girl who always attracted trouble because whenever any Alpha or Omega was nearby, they managed to catch her new-presenting scent—and the Lannisters put as many Alphas as they could in their ranks.  She’d always faced them, braver than any ten men, like a true Alpha. Now, though, she looked as though she were trying not to be defeated.

Jon was dead, his heart turned to ice.  Bran was fading into the godhead. Sansa had married the Sword of the Morning and left the North for summer suns.  And Arya was the last of Ned Stark’s brood, the unlikely girl born an Alpha that the North had turned to in place of the last remaining son—a Beta.  

_ “He’ll be my heir, and his children after,”  _ Arya had muttered later.

_ “You don’t think you’ll marry?”  _ Gendry had asked

And Arya had only shaken her head.  “ _ I know of no man who’d wed himself to an Alpha, do you? And know of no Omegas who’d want someone who couldn’t knot them, no matter how good I smell.  No—I don’t imagine I shall wed.” _

_ “Surely there’d be—” _

_ “Someone who’d wed me for Winterfell, yes.  But Winterfell has an heir, and need not rely on me for it.  I don’t have to do that duty if my Lady mother—”  _ She had cut herself off.  Gendry knew that she hated speaking of her mother, shuddered and wept and slept poorly for the memory of their last meeting.

Rickon sits at his sister’s elbow, listening as well.  He’s growing taller by the day, his face long like Arya’s, his auburn hair turning a darker brown as he grows older.   _ Maybe he’ll take the Stark look after all,  _ Gendry thinks as he sips down his beer.   Arya would like that—her brother looking like her and Jon.

He eats, drinks, plays several rounds of dice with Fat Martin the new blacksmith before he makes his way to the chambers that Arya had given him for services rendered during the Battle of Winterfell.

He takes off his boots, strips down to his shirtsleeves and washes his face before stretching out on his bed and closing his eyes and hoping sleep will not take too long to come for him.

 

-

 

The knock comes in the middle of the night and Gendry rubs his hands against his face.  For a moment, he thinks it’s war again, that his turn to sleep has been cut short because there’s an attack, best grab your hammer, you are needed.  

But when he stumbles through the dark to open the  door, one of the guards is standing there. “Lady Stark wishes to see you,” he says.

“What?  It’s the middle of the night.”

The guard shrugs.  “Says it’s urgent.”

Gendry puts on pants and grabs a tunic as well because it’s  _ cold _ and Arya can make fun of him all she likes for being a southerner, it shouldn’t be this cold at night in summer.  It shouldn’t snow in summer, either.

He arrives at her chambers a few minutes later, knocking lightly.

“Come in,” she growls, and Gendry pauses before opening the door.  She sounds angry.

She is.

Her cheeks are flushed, there’s sweat on her face and a sword is in her hand.  She seems to have been training with it.

“What’s going on?” he asks slowly.  “Has there been…” he doesn’t even know what to ask.  Bad news from the south? The Boltons, arisen from the dead?  

“I can’t sleep,” Arya says.  “And I kept thinking about Mycah.”  

“Mycah?” Gendry asks slowly.  He’s heard the name before but can’t place—

“My friend—the one the Hound killed,” Arya snaps.  Right. That one. Gendry remembers now. She doesn’t mention him often, but he—“Never mind,” she snaps.  “You can leave.”

“What?” Gendry is startled. “You dragged me here in the middle of the night and—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, rounding on him.  “You don’t care. No one’s ever cared.”

“I care your friend got murdered,”  he replies. “Arya, what’s—”

“You don’t even remember his name.  No one does. Not even the Hound did.  Called him Mychel.”

“Arya—” and there are tears in her grey eyes.  Frantic, angry tears. He has never seen her cry before.  

“I’m in rut,” she moans.  “At least I think I am,” she says.  “I never have been before. I thought there had to be an Omega nearby for me to go into Rut, but I haven’t scented one in years.  Not one that I wanted, anyway.” Because Mycah had been an Omega, the first one she’d ever felt drawn to, that hint that she was an Alpha before she truly began to present.  She’d told him that once, and he’d gotten surly before he’d known why.

She turns away from him and it’s only in that moment that Gendry registers that the sword in her hand isn’t the Valyrian Steel weapon he’d crafted for her to carry from the remains of Widow’s Wail.  It’s not the sword that he had remade for House Stark, smaller than Ice, but still beautiful, austere. It’s Needle she’s holding.

“Arya,” he says slowly, coming to stand behind her and resting his hand on her shoulder.  

“Sometimes,” she mumbles, “Sometimes I still think of it.  It’s like Robb and Mother—it doesn’t matter that he’s dead, because it doesn’t bring Mycah back.”  He can practically hear her chewing her lip as she says it. 

Gendry’s always been careful around Arya—ever since that time in the forge at Acorn Hall, when Lem had given him a talking to.  Now, though...she sounds miserable, and lonely, and he wraps his arms around her while she shudders.

“He would have loved me,” Arya said.  “Even if my parents wouldn’t have allowed it, they’d have understood.  They’d have—I don’t think they’d have stopped it. Not that anything would have happened.  I was young and didn’t know what was—” She shudders again.

“Do you think it would be impossible for someone to love you?” he asks her and she goes still.

“I’ve told you,” she says, “No one would want an Alpha who couldn’t knot them, and—”

“And there couldn’t possibly be a Beta who’d want you for you?  You sound like your sister.”

She gives him a sharp look.

“I do not,” she retorts hotly.

“You do.  She was always so convinced no one would marry her for love.  Bloody annoying, it was. Especially when she did marry for love.”

Arya rolls her eyes.  “She had her reasons for saying that, but I  _ don’t _ have those reasons—”

“No, you just are convinced that everything you are, everything you’ve made yourself—it’s unloveable.”

“Yes, because there are so many people lining up to be in my bed,” Arya snaps.  

“You’re respected and—”

“—and respect keeps me warm at night,” she snaps.  “There. You happy? I’ll admit it.” She breaks out of his arms again and whirls to face him.  Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are bright and Lord of Light his mouth goes dry.

“Why’d you call me here?” he asks her.  “So you could yell and cry at someone who wouldn’t think you’re stupid for it?”

“I am stupid for it,” she retorts.  “Also that’s stupid.”

“You’re not stupid for caring,” he replies.  “Seven bloody hells, Arya. Your caring is why people respect you.”

She grabs the front of his tunic.  “And the trouble with rut is that I could give a damn about people’s respect.  I just want—I want—”

“You wanted me?” he asks her quietly.  The words just slip out, and he wishes to all that is good in the world that they hadn’t.  Because now he can never unsay them. He can never unthink them. That she, in her rut, had called for him.

She lets go of his tunic at once.  “I did not. Don’t be stupid. You’re my friend, Gendry.”

“Mycah was your friend,” he replies.  He’s really digging into this one, isn’t he?  He knows he’s not Mycah. He knows he’s never been Mycah to her.

“Yes, but he was murdered and you weren’t.  It’s different.”

“He was an Omega and I’m not,” Gendry replies bitterly.

“That’s not it at all, don’t be—”

“Stupid.  Yeah. That’s me.  I’m going to bed,” he says turning around, before he makes it worse, before he drives Arya to say something in his frustration and her rut, before he breaks his own heart for want of recognition, the way he always does.  

“Stop it,” Arya growls and he freezes.

People talk of Alphas and commands.  Gendry’s mostly laughed it off. Arya’s the only Alpha he’s known—apart from Jon Snow, but Jon Snow giving battle commands isn’t the same as Arya  trying to get someone to do something. She’s stubborn, and determined, and no one ever listens to her—or at least, they didn’t when she was a girl.  

But he freezes where he’s standing now.  

“By your leave, my lady,” he says, turning his head to look at her.  She’s staring at him, stunned.

“Don’t you _ my lady _ me now,” she snaps.  “Don’t be stupid just because you’re upset.”

“Why not?  You were.”

He hears Arya take a deep breath.  He hears the sound of her sheathing her sword.  Then he feels her hand on his back. “Please,” she tells him.  “Please, don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you,” Gendry sighs.  As if he could ever truly be angry with her.  Angry with himself, oh yes, but not Arya. Never Arya.  

“Will you look at me?”

“I can’t move.”

“You can’t—”

“Nope.  You did it at last.”

“I—shut up.”

“Can I please move.”

“Yes, fine, move,” Arya snaps and Gendry’s muscles relax and he turns to her.  “Why did it work?” she asks him.

“Rut, maybe?” he suggests.

Arya chews her lip.   “I suppose,” she says.  She looks up at him, frowning.  “Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?”

“What I say.  It’s weird.”

“I didn’t exactly choose that,” Gendry points out. 

“Yeah, but it still happened.”

“Maybe don’t command me, then.”

Arya snorts.  “Like that’s ever going to happen.”

“I thought you just said—”

“I like bossing you around but I also like that you don’t listen,” she replies.  “It keeps me honest. But if you ever tell anyone I said it I’ll deny it flatly.”

“Arya,” he says sternly.  He knows her too well not to recognize when she’s trying to change the subject, to hide her pain or her fear.

“I mean it.  I’ll call you a liar, and no one will—”

“Why did you bring me here?”

She stops talking.  Then she squares her shoulders, stands a little straighter, and kisses him.

And Gendry melts.

 

-

 

He’s not an Omega.  He doesn’t know how she smells, doesn’t know what it would even feel like to feel compelled to obey her every command.

But he’s known her for years, has been part of her pack for longer than she’s even had a pack, and when she pulls his tunic up over his head it doesn’t matter that she’s an Alpha, what matters is that he’s done for.  

So utterly done for.

She pushes him onto the bed and straddles him and she’s still clothed but is kissing her way along his chest, nipping at his skin, sucking at that spot above his heart.  Her hands are tugging at the laces of his trousers and pulling him out before he even knows what’s happening and god, her hands are calloused but her grip is firm and he feels a little bit like he’s going to explode.

“Arya,” he says to her but she doesn’t stop.  She keeps pumping her hand up and down his shaft and he gets stiffer and stiffer between her fingers and—“Arya.”

“What,” she growls, and her grey eyes look fevered, feverish, angry.  Afraid.

What is she afraid of?

He sits up slightly underneath her and her eyes go bright  and her mouth opens slightly to say something stupid undoubtedly and he kisses her, wraps his arms around her and pulls her down so that her heart is pressed against his chest too.  

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispers to her.

“I’m not afraid,” she retorts, pulling back, but his lips chase hers into another kiss, into another lifetime.  Because this isn’t his life. Not some bastard Beta by-blow of Robert Baratheon. That Gendry can’t be the same as the one that’s kissing Arya Stark, the one that’s holding her in his arms as her hand grips him.

“Good,” he replies after several minutes.

“Hm?”

“Good.  That you’re not afraid.”

She rolls her eyes.  “Why would I be afraid of you?”

And the words slip out of him before he can stop them.  “Because that would mean you’re pretending not to be in love with me.”

“I’m not in love with you,” she says.

“Liar.”

Because of course she is—he can see that now.  Not the stuff of passionate love songs, of singers and stars.  A different sort of love. One that burns like hot coals—not bright, but deep and hot and long, enough to carry you through a winter night alone.

“I am not a liar,” she says and his eyes roll into the back of his head because she’d chosen just that moment to swipe at his tip with her thumb.   “I’ve never once lied to you.”

“You lied to me from the moment I met you.  But I knew you were a girl, just like I know you’re in love with me.”  He kisses her.

“Just because I’m rutting you doesn’t mean—”

“Don’t be afraid.  I feel it too. I’m in love with you too.”  The rocking motion of her hips stops, her grip on him—oh god—it gets tighter.  Her face goes smooth as still water.

“Don’t say that,” she says at last.

“Don’t say what.”

“That you love me if you don’t.”

“What makes you think I don’t?”

“Because if you did you’d—” she cuts herself off and looks away and Gendry takes full advantage of her distraction to flip them over, to hover over her, his hands on her wrists, pressing her into the bed.

“I love you,” he whispers.  “Don’t know when it started.  Don’t know if that matters. But I do love  you. And you know it. You’re just being stupid right now.”

“I’m not being stupid,” she retorts.  “I’m—”

He cuts her off with a kiss.

He kisses her and kisses her and kisses her until she’s stopped trying to protest that she’s not lying—because she very much is—and until she’s rolled him back on his back again.  When her lips leave his, it’s not to call him stupid, it’s to suck and nip her way down his neck. Her hands are running up and down his stomach now and a moment later they’re completely gone, fumbling at the ties of her own trousers and tugging them as far down her legs as they’ll go.  

There’s this blazing look in her eyes as she settles herself across him and Gendry’s lived through fire and ice and death and rebirth and nothing—nothing—will ever feel the way that Arya feels as she sinks onto him.  Life is pounding in his heart, in his throat. Nothing will ever be the same. Everything he has ever been has been building to this moment.

And then she starts to move.

Gendry’s always been proud of his stamina.  Years in the forge, then years on the run, then years at war—he’s not weak, he’s always been able to hold his own.  He’s never once fallen behind. His hands fist on the bed underneath him and he breathes as hard as he can to keep himself from unmanning himself.

This is nothing like striking while the iron is hot, setting a bruising but methodical pace, bending tin and copper and Valyrian steel to your will.  And yet it is everything like that. He feels as though he is on fire as she sets the pace and Lord of Light have mercy upon his soul, the pace she sets could destroy worlds.  Or maybe just his world. If he doesn’t breathe.

He twitches inside her.  She is safety and home, she has always been the leader of the pack though he is stronger and taller.  She is all heart and justice and never has he felt so valued as he has by her. Not once in his life. She made him think that he is worth more to the world because he is worth something to her, because she loves him.

And he loves her.

She pauses just long enough to strip off the undershirt she’d been wearing and that’s what does it for him, the sight of stiff pink nipples, the same shade as her panting lips, and the way they are now brushing against his chest as she leans forward to kiss him as she rides.

He wonders what it would be like to be an Alpha—for his cock to stay stiff and hard, to come for minutes on end, to fill her with his seed.  She seems wholly unconcerned that he unmanned himself within her as she settles briefly on his chest and kisses the underside of his chin.

“You love me?” she whispers to him at last—shy now, as though love is something to be more frightened of than that she’d given him some part of her virtue.

“I do,” he replies.  “And don’t lie to me and say you—”

“I love you,” she breathes and he knows it’s the truth from the way she bites her lip.  

His heart settles, but Arya’s flush doesn’t go away.  She gets a little fidgety after a few minutes and Gendry knows himself well enough to know that he’ll be useless for her rut for at least half an hour, if not longer.  Too long for her immediate need.

But he’s always been deft with his hands, so he brings his fingers down her back, along the crevice between her legs and begins to stroke.  Her breath hitches, and her eyes lock with his. 

“Don’t stop,” she tells him.

“As my lady commands.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/crossing_winter) and [pillowfort](http://pillowfort.io/crossingwinter)


End file.
